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Nah I’m grand.

Ah, the joy of this. We have reached over twenty-two thousand words. I’m seeing the characters all speak out in ways that I can predict and the way forward needs nothing more than time. I can see this doing really well, and the way is onward.

However, all this progress has a cost. I’m up at 5.30 am to do this. My little guy still doesn’t sleep through the night, guys. So at least twice I’m awake at 4 am. Add a 5.30 am start with hard work behind it, and it is hard. Hard. I won’t write it out but just, please, say that word out loud, slowly. I found myself Thursday evening over the stirfry dizzy. Nothing to do but serve up and keep going. (Sorry it was so bad, other half). And that has to happen if I am going to do this…

There really is something about this time of year that I love. I grew up in not necessarily lavish, but large houses, homes with a lot of grassland around them. My mum’s home was a farm in Tipperary, lots of walks around it. I’ve always pointed to that as the reason I love old things. Not even antiques, just old, really old. An old wall, ivy spilling over it, a few fallen stones for good measure, while above the sky is quiet and overcast, is the most soothing thing in the world to me. I was on the bus with Little Man today. He loves the bus, seeing the world from a different angle, and we passed all these old, hidden houses with their broken walls, the sky all quiet and soft with clouds, and the leaves falling like a silent ticker tape parade for us. I thought of how often the image of that old world would come back to me during my life, like some mental comfort blanket for my mind. I don’t live in an old house, or in an old world. But if I had my chance, I would find some place not new, or rushed, and just sit and look and let it age. And let time, like a slow, low, cello note, sooth and smooth and pour over me.

For some reason this is the most peaceful thing in the world to me.

Happy Sunday. Talk to you next week.

Writing and the writers writing it writes.

Greetings, mes amies. I write from a messy table in a messy kitchen in a messy life. Does anyone ever get this right? No one we’d like, any way. Had an interesting moment recently when on the top of the bus with little Man. There was just him, me, and another mum with her daughter. This situation, where female parents are in close proximity, tends to lead to one of them attempting a “Mummy Off”. It isn’t a smack down, with Ikea chairs broken over-pilated backs, nothing so honest. Instead there is a subtle testing of each other over the worth of little Sebastian or Cassandra. The problem for me is that I don’t care. Little Man does not speak French, nor do I wash his hair with homemade shampoo. The only thing he might win is, indeed, a smack down, and in such a comp I’d advise you to put a tenner on him, kid’s a scrapper.

I had to remove the ruder tattoos…

Anyways. Another week of writing done and behind me. It is Sunday, and I’ve been up at 5.30 am to go into work to write from 6.30 am. And while on Tuesday I got a mere two thousand words done, on Thursday I managed to get a whopping four thousand words done. Wow. Just wow. However, there is a problem with that. Because it was then 8.30 am in the morning, and everyone else was showing up and starting a day’s work. I had to go into a three hour meeting and I found that my brain had no intention of giving it any real effort. It reminded me of something…

Yeah. That was it.

Wishing you all a wonderful week ahead of you…

Le Writing Journal

Mon amies, bonjour. J’ecrive mon lettre dans l’cusine avec mon mari, et le file ete dormir in the sitting room, and that is about as much French as I can recall in my exhausted state.  Little man has decided again that early mornings are preferable, and I am killed all over again. Added to the wonderful person who decided that the best place to fly a large plane was over my house at 5.30am and I am actually not going to put myself behind the wheel of a car any time today. I’m in that tired state when if you close your eyes you automatically start dreaming. I don’t mean sleep, I mean you go straight to dreaming, so that when you are woken again you have to recollect that that you are the jowl faced old wan you are, rather than the lion tamer worried about the butter cream melting. Yeah. I don’t know what it means either.

It means you want to be a horse.

So, it is another Sunday. I’ve kept up with the writing and we have nicely broken the ten thousand mark. I am seeing the pace slow down, however, as I get better at the writing, rather than just the typing. You can see the seasons as the sky gets colder at that hour, and the moon shines high, and bright, over the insanity of walking across a dark campus at 6.00. I am loving it much much more than the swimming, but ironically the writing is much harder on the body than the exercise. At the end of one of the early morning sessions, I find myself easing myself out of the chair like a hostage without the ropes. Each limb has to be painfully stretched out, sloooowly, to get the blood back in there, and to remind myself that there is a life outside of these women, we’re done with them for now.

“Oh god me back.”

It is an amazing moment, though. It is a weird transition, going from the dark night, to reinventing myself as a worker in an office. It is like shaking off dust sheets while I try to convince others I’m kosher and above board.  Trust me!

Right. It’s Sunday, and I need to cosplay as an adult. Wishing you all a grand day.

Me and the Writing

So, first week down. I’ve been getting up at 5.30am to get into work by 6.30 am and write. It has been an interesting week, for several different reasons, but I will say that I have found it easier than I would have thought.

And… Up we go again!

Firstly, as to my security. I work on a campus, and so the place is open to the public. I’m also not terribly eager to explain myself to security each and every time. So I go in, and unlock the door, then lock the door behind me, thereby insuring I’m safe while I work, and not freaking out security who come to lock it at 7.30am.

Secondly, playing catch up. So far, I’ve made myself up to date on my list of submissions. It really is a wonderful sensation to do so. Most of these things require bios, synopsis and such, so even if the damn thing is written you have to supply ancillary text to back it up. And that is now done, two novellas submitted. I’ll hear about one in December and one at the end of this month, so I will get to stagger the rejection, if nothing else.

Finally, coffee. My veins must be made of it at this stage…

Also, I managed to plot out the novel. I’ve seen the characters change hugely even in the short time I’ve been writing it, and so I am pleased to finally get that acknowledged and get a new plot done. We will see what the next week brings.

Happy Glenroe day to the lot of ye.

A Note for You All…

I am writing this from the one bloody computer that remembers the blog log in details. I am somehow keeping going with this damn thing, but I am right now the equivalent of a rolled up piece of paper, sellotaped to a chair in an empty room in an abandoned building; no one is going to read this and it’s not clear what they are going to get out of it if they do… My blog stats are flatter than my wit, which is at half-mast as it is.

Anyway. To get you all up to speed, because it is my blog and I can if I want to; I am writing again, to the extent that I have submitted an entry to the Penny Dreadful novella competition. If it does well, I find out in December. If it doesn’t do well in December, you find out too, because I will put it out to sell electronically as an ebook, so I will. I worked on it since my maternity leave so I am eager for it to strut its stuff.

I submitted that at 7.30am last Thursday at my office desk. Which is where I will be for quite sometime. My usual routine is to get to a swimming pool before work, but increasingly the nagging voice on my shoulder has been asking me which is more important, writing or swimming? Usually followed with a sarcastic Hmmmmm? as nagging voices are oft to do. It also usually points out all the flaws I have as a worker, a parent, and so on, but on this point it has been getting louder. So twice a week I will be working solely on my writing. It is the weirdest thing, to do what I want. No doubt it will play out like the first fifteen minutes of Casualty and I will be killed in a car crash/left by my husband for a stripper/see a meteorite crash through the ceiling while a bunch of cardiganed middle aged women, standing a safe distance away, will watch the fireball unfold, fold their arms and purse their lips and say nothing more than a smug hmmmmm… Ah here!

“Good luck!”

I do have a novel that I have about 15k written about and most of the rest plotted out, and I want so much to write it I think I would enjoy doing it with Dolores Umbridge’s pen. It is about people who I love so much I think they are almost real, really, and I can’t let them not be read. Being able to get to a desk to discuss them is so wonderful I would do it at any time. I do not have that space often, very few of us do, so I am very, very lucky.  Really looking forward to it, am willing to dodge comets to do so.  I am to swim three days a week, and still try to get home at a sensible time to clean the house and pick up mah son and do all the other stuff.

I aim to write up again next week, next Sunday hopefully. Very much hope you’re well, reading this, and that life is all good and happy. Drop us a line if you can? Best wishes…

A funny thing happened in the swimming pool…

My morning routine is pretty fixed. I get up early and go for a swim, in a thick sleep induced fog, and the lack of cognition I bring to it can’t be overstated.  I function by routine; the same breakfast, the same bus, the same locker.

Last Friday, I found that someone was in my usual locker. Not to worry. Instead, I put my gear in the locker below and got on with my swim. With me so far?

Swim done, out I get. It’s about 7.35 am and I’m fully in my routine. I get to the lockers, nod to the guy next to me and open my usual locker. Once I can see inside, I realise/remember that it isn’t my locker this morning and shut it immediately.

However. I saw what was inside. And what I saw….

Don’t research this, it will ruin your childhood.

 

“Spiderman underwear!” I say to the person next to me.

“Sorry, what?”

“Spiderman underwear, that person had Spiderman underwear!”

We look at each other in amazement. “I hope whoever it is, is ten years old,” says my locker buddy.

“Really? No, I hope they’re forty-two years old, I think that’s brilliant!”

“You don’t think they’re for children?”

“Well, we’ve all got our own sides to us, don’t we? For example, the author of Wind in the Willows was the Governor of the Bank of England!”

“That really true?”

“Yes, it is! Who ever it is, fair play to them.”

This last part is said to each other over our shoulders, as we gather our items. Mine take several trips, I don’t want to drop anything on the wet floor.

As I go back to the lockers, there, standing at the open locker, is a man. He was seconds away from us as we talked, and looks like he came from the showers, he’s heard everything. I come to an abrupt halt, with an audible ‘oh…’ in horror.

I come up to my own locker, wondering what to say. He doesn’t turn his head, but merely gathers up his items with great dignity. As he leaves, he says one thing.

“I don’t think about Spiderman in meetings, you know.”

Make amends! Make amends, calls out my brain! So I call out to his retreating back, “But I think Spiderman is cool!”

But there is no answer, as he walks down the hall.

Well, bother. And now, his face is fixed in my memory. If I ever meet him on campus, I will remember, instantly, that this is the man with the Spiderman underwear.

And worse luck, so will he.

Whiplash. Here Be Spoilers, People.

I managed, over the course of a week, to watch Whiplash. It’s a strong Oscar contender, and the trailer is amazing for its tightness, and its focus. It tells the story of a student drummer enrolled in a facsimile of Julliard, whose teacher pushes him beyond the limits by sheer abuse. That isn’t me hand wringing, by the way. The trailer itself makes it absolutely clear, from the first lesson, that J.K. Simmonds’ teacher does not follow the Socratic method.

Why so long?

As I said, it took me a week to watch it. The structure of my day means I work, come home and do housework for half an hour, and then pick up Little Man. When he’s home, he is the priority, not films, so other than the Daily Show over dinner, nothing else gets watched. It means I saw Whiplash in about twenty minute segments per day, until we were done.  That may have influenced my reaction to it, because I’ve a few thoughts that aren’t really being reflected elsewhere, as far as I can see.

The movie’s question

The movie sets itself up to ask a certain question; is this teaching method acceptable if results are obtained? If it works, is it forgivable? One of the ways it asks this, is by concerning itself with the Mens Rea of the Teacher. Does he want this student, Andrew, to succeed, seeing in him some worthwhile spark of greatness? Or does he merely enjoy abuse, unable to step away from his tactics no matter what it does to the student?

Spoilers!

Here is the spoiler part my title speaks of. At one point, the teacher Fletcher gets a phone call after class, a phone call that leaves him distressed. At the next class that evening, he reveals that a student of his, who had gone on to great things, had died in a car crash. He then goes on to give the lesson, and what a lesson. Driven even more angry, he compulsively makes each drummer pound the drum until they reach the speed he demands. He holds up the lesson until they get there. The lesson started at 9 pm. Fletcher is a man possessed in that class; each student has their worst fears yelled at them while they sweat and bleed on their sticks. Our hero is told that his mother left him as a baby because of the aura of pathetic he conveys, and that he will amount to nothing. Somehow, though, he does it. He reaches the required tempo. The other students are now called back in, at 2 am, and when they do finally get to leave the building and go home, our hero seems to have aged ten years.

Miles Teller (left) and J. K. Simmons in “Whiplash.” Credit Photograph by Daniel McFadden / Sony Pictures Classics / Everett

 

What happens next

The next day, our hero somehow makes it to the performance, despite suffering a car accident and near hysteria due to his panic at not being on time. Fletcher, unimpressed, pulls him out from the drums (he was dripping blood) and Andrew throws himself on him, fighting and kicking in rage. He is pulled off the stage; he is thrown out of the school. He takes up a job in Starbucks to pay the bills, and puts his musical aims in the closet. He is then contacted by the family of a former student, and things take another twist.

The student who died in a car crash, didn’t die in a car crash. He in fact took his own life. And he took his own life on foot of mental problems that started when Fletcher was his teacher. That was the telephone call Fletcher took. That was the detail that spurred him on that night. And what a reaction! To learn that you have driven a young student to suicide, only to be compelled to cause more pain, more agony. I have caused death, he has thought. I will continue on, but even stronger.

Andrew is asked to tell of his own experience  in an effort to get Fletcher fired, and he does just that. But he agrees when Fletcher asks him to play in his own band months later. The final scene is both nightmare and dream, really, Fletcher, it seems, knew all along it was Andrew who helped get him fired, and orchestrated him being on stage, in Carnegie hall, without proper notes so as to shame him. Horrified, Andrew leaves the stage, but then turns back on his heel and goes back to his drums. He starts a set that leaves everyone gasping and as you can hear here, guides the rest of the band into Caravan. Fletcher is furious, but maintains his role on stage. However, the excellence of Andrew is compelling; he gives a virtuoso performance, and Fletcher is spun back into being his teacher once again. The movie ends with the Mens Rea of Fletcher being confirmed, in the final second, as being that of the teacher; his belief in Andrew is confirmed, he was about the spark of greatness all along.

Why this is more dangerous than 50 Shades

This movie is a fantasy. It is about accepting abuse from someone in the belief that they are somehow about your own best interests, that they will make you better, and you will just have to put up with this if you wish to be considered good enough. Fletcher is a teacher who will drive students to suicide, and consider them weak, rather than back off. He wants greatness but he doesn’t want to learn himself. He seeks to teach, but not to care, and the movie frankly agrees with him. Andrew becomes amazing at his art. And he does that after months of inactivity, a dream coming true right in front of our eyes. Andrew’s pain and agony is not important, what is important is where he ends up. And his emotional state is not part of anyone’s concern.  Again, and I’m boring people now at this stage, women are delicate flowers, men get to suck it up, and round and round it goes. Andrew, in his way, gets the same message as Anastasia Steele, that the abuse they suffer is worth it in the end, but there is very little concern about his life out there.  Andrew is under Fletcher’s thrall completely by the end of the movie, and so everything is … worked out? If the music is good enough, it is worth it.

I’m unconvinced. Whiplash is a fantasy, not reality, and it ignores the consequences of what it proposes, like a good movie.

I have read a buk…

It is a startling, scary thing to admit but I have read a book. I did, it was a grown up book and everything. It was called For God’s Sake, and you can find details about it here.

For God's Sake: The Hidden Life of Irish Nuns, by Camillus Metcalfe

I found myself actually growing more and more suspicious about the book as I read it. There is nothing itself within the discipline of Psychiatry that ensure the remove of a status quo. This certainly applies in Ireland as it does elsewhere, where the wheels of the medical profession move to stock up and ensure that the dialogues of power are enforced and encouraged.

The book starts with the nuns’s statements being discussed and broken down. Along with that there is an introduction to each nun’s statement that explains their flaws, sins, and ‘blindness’ as to their own flaws.  There is no clarity as to where there is any direct transcript of these women’s voices, only the presentation of them through the filter provided by the author/editor. So the book is, while possibly accurate, a nice example of the operations of power that can exist in a society.

 

TL;DR; Nuns were good, now they were bad. M’kay?

 

 

100 Days without sugar – 41 days to go

New newbies be reading and stuff here; Our heroine had successfully battled her way out of the jungle, but has slowly eased herself over a waterfall. Shocked at the shocking state of her, she resolves to do without sugar for 100 days.

And that you all should hear about it, you random chance delightful vanilla favoring people.

Now read on…

So, I was having lunch with a clever friend called Naomi. And she suggests that I should go off carbs for two days and then revert back for the five.

This pleases me very much, mainly because it will mean I get to eat and not cry at the same time.

If you hate this idea put that hate in the comments, people. Gwan gwan gwan, my life is empty and I am really shallow.

File:Saucer with yellow and white design.jpg

This has more depth, for instance.